Black Witch

She felt like she was falling, pulled downward into an abyss, the weight of unseen hands dragging her through thick, dark-green mist. The air crackled, charged with energy, and from somewhere in the distance, voices echoed, women’s voices, layered and shifting, their words just out of reach.

A sound slithered through the air, sharp and rhythmic. A serpent.

Morana’s breath hitched as she felt something brush against her leg — smooth, fleeting. She looked down, searching for the creature, but saw nothing. Still, the hissing continued, a steady presence, not a threat but a whispering companion.

Then, light.

Bolts of magic shot through the darkness, illuminating the void with bursts of shifting colors. But as she watched, one by one, the hues bled away, twisting and deepening into a single shade.

Purple.

The magic pulsed, wild and consuming, and the violet glow reflected in her eyes, intensifying the unnatural shade of her irises. Her dark hair, unbound, cascaded down her back as she took a step forward.

Run.

The command wasn’t spoken, but she felt it in her bones. She lunged toward the magic, her pulse pounding. But no matter how fast she ran, the distance never closed. It was slipping away—fading, dissolving, until there was nothing left but darkness.

“Come.”

She spun around. A figure stood ahead, its back to her, draped in a black cloak, the hood obscuring its face. A woman’s voice.

“It’s time for us to go.”

The figure walked forward, and instinct pushed Morana to follow. She hurried her steps, her breath coming fast, but no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t reach them. They stayed ahead, just out of reach, until finally…

They were gone.

She was alone again.

A flicker of light caught her eye, illuminating something on the ground. Three objects, side by side. As she approached, their shapes sharpened, their presence heavy.

Three skulls.

The first was clean, pristine bone. The second bore cracks, dark lines like veins splintering across the surface. And the third—her gaze locked onto it—was different. Something moved within its hollow mouth.

A shadow. No. A shape.

A beak.

Dark and sharp, it protruded from between the teeth, struggling, trapped. A crow.

Morana’s chest tightened. She reached forward, an unshakable pull commanding her to help.

But before she could touch it…

Fire.

A sudden, violent surge erupted around her, swallowing the space in an inferno. Flames encircled her, spiraling, consuming everything in their path. She felt the heat, the raw intensity, the air turning thick with smoke…

“Morana!”

The impact sent her crashing to the ground.

The voice snapped her back to reality, wrenching her from the dream’s grasp.

Her trainer loomed above her, arms crossed, irritation clear. “You’re unfocused.”

Pain flared through Morana’s small frame as she pushed herself upright, every muscle aching in protest. It was too much strain for someone so young, being only 10 yeasr old, her body not yet built for the relentless punishment. A metallic taste filled her mouth—blood. Her tongue throbbed; she must have bitten it when she fell.

Stray strands of black hair stuck to her sweat-dampened face, her braid loose from the fight. Another bruise. Just one more to add to the collection.

"Again," the trainer commanded.

Morana exhaled sharply, shaking out her limbs, adjusting her stance. The black fabric of her training clothes clung to her, damp with exertion. Her entire body ached.

Still, her mind wasn’t here. It was tangled in the images from the night before, the dream lingering like an imprint burned into her soul.

The whispers. The magic. Pulling her.

They felt real. Like echoes of something she was supposed to understand.

She forced herself to focus, to push the thoughts aside, but deep down, she knew.

She wouldn’t forget.

The training hall was vast, its red walls towering, lined with dark banners that bore the sigil of Mephisto, an ever-present reminder of who forged warriors here. This was a place of creation—not of life, but of weapons. Pain was a tool, discipline a law. For Morana, it was all she had ever known.

The room buzzed with the sounds of combat, grunts, the crack of fists against flesh, the dull thud of bodies hitting the mat. Commands barked. Pain swallowed. Weakness burned away.

Across from her stood another trainee, a girl who had arrived only two years ago. She still carried the weight of a past life. Memories of family, love, warmth. Morana saw it in her eyes. The confusion. The anger. The fear. It was always harder for those who remembered what they had lost.

But Morana had nothing to remember. Nothing to miss. This was all she had ever been.

She had been holding back, measuring her movements, testing the girl’s limits. But her opponent wasn’t extending the same courtesy.

“Morana, focus.”

The trainer’s voice cut through the noise.

“Come on, I’m not going to stand here all day,” the girl taunted, her tone laced with impatience and aggression.

“Begin.”

The girl circled her, fists clenched, waiting for an opening. Morana didn’t move. Just watched.

Whatever.

Then, a sudden burst of movement, the girl lunged, her fist aimed straight for Morana’s face.

But she never made it.

Mid-strike, her body froze. Suspended in the air, her knuckles hovered inches from Morana’s cheek, locked in place as if time itself had betrayed her.

Morana exhaled slowly. Her power had surged on instinct.

Black tendrils coiled from her feet, slithering through the air like living shadows, whispering as they wound their way toward the girl. The air thickened, dark smoke rising around them, curling at the edges of the mat, enclosing them in a silent void.

The girl’s eyes widened in terror. Her body trembled, but she couldn’t move. She was trapped, her limbs rigid, her breath caught in her throat. Only her eyes darted wildly, pleading, panicked, desperate to escape.

Morana could feel it. The energy. The hunger. It wanted to be let loose. It wanted to consume.

And she wanted to let it.

She stared at the girl, unblinking, her violet eyes ablaze, vivid and violent, almost luminescent. The world around her falling away. There was no sound. No movement. Only the power thrumming beneath her skin, whispering for release, for destruction.

Morana.

A voice, distant, like an echo and a warning.

But the magic surged, rising higher, pressing against the walls of her control. She could give the girl the fight she was looking for. She could show her what real fear felt like.

The girl’s face had gone deathly pale, her breath coming in short, choked gasps.

"MORANA!"

The name shattered through the trance.

Morana’s breath hitched, she blinked. The tendrils snapped back, retreating into nothing. The smoke vanished.

The girl collapsed onto the mat with a gasp, scrambling backward, her entire body shaking.

Silence stretched across the training hall. Every pair of eyes was on her, some held fear, others, anticipation. Challenge.

Power.

“Vesna, get up before I give you a reason to stay there forever.”

The trainer’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. The girl flinched but obeyed, scrambling to her feet, refusing to meet Morana’s gaze.

Morana rolled her shoulders, exhaling slowly. Her heart still pounded in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain unreadable.

She had control. For now.

The heavy doors to the hall creaked open, and a guard stepped inside, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze locked onto Morana. No words were needed. She knew what this meant.

She turned to the trainer, who gave a curt nod, silently dismissing her. Without hesitation, she stepped off the fighting mat and followed the guard across the hall, her boots echoing in the vast emptiness. Every step felt measured, purposeful. The air grew heavier as they neared the meeting chamber, a room used only when he was present.

The agent halted at the doorway, a silent order for her to enter. Morana obeyed, stepping inside.

It was a vast, hollow room, its emptiness heavy, echoing with silence. A long crimson rug stretched across the cold stone floor, leading toward the far end, where a fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The scent of aged wood and smoldering embers lingered in the air.

And there, standing by the window, partially bathed in the fire’s glow, was him.

Mephisto

He stood with his back to her, gazing out the tall window. The city beyond burned in endless twilight, casting his silhouette in crimson and gold. The weight of his presence pressed against her, thick as smoke.

She bowed, not too deep, just enough to acknowledge his position without surrendering herself to it.

“Sir.”

A low, amused chuckle broke the silence, rich and taunting. His voice followed, smooth yet razor-sharp, echoing through the vast room.

“No one manages to say that word with such reverence and yet such insignificance as you do.”

She remained still, eyes cast downward, listening as he turned, the sound of his footsteps deliberate. He settled into a chair in the corner, stretching out the moment before speaking.

“I thought you had already conquered your tendency to lose control.”

Silence. A deliberate pause meant to stretch, to force her to fill it.

“Look at me.”

Morana lifted her gaze. Her violet eyes still held the remnants of battle, electric, unyielding.

He was an illusion of something human, wrapped in pristine black, his jacket untouched by a single wrinkle, his dark hair pulled back with meticulous care. But his eyes—red, bottomless—betrayed him. They saw too much. Knew too much.

"Or at the very least, I assumed you’d learned to control your emotions better," he continued, voice smooth, edged with something sharper. "But I suppose today is… different."

He let the word settle, heavy, as if waiting for her to react.

She didn’t.

Instead, she kept her expression carefully neutral, though inside, something coiled tight.

Today marked ten years. Ten years since she had been born. Ten years since she had been handed over. Ten years of being nothing but an instrument, a blade for him to wield.

She could feel his gaze dissecting her, waiting for the crack, the slip.

“It was just another day of training,” she said evenly. “I miscalculated. Used more power than necessary.”

He studied her. The silence between them stretched long enough to make most people shift uncomfortably.

“And the dreams?” His voice was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched her. “Are you still having them?”

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Morana’s mouth ran dry.

She never went a full year without them. Sometimes they were infrequent, fading for months at a time. Other times, they came in clusters, relentless, vivid. And always, as her birthday approached, they returned stronger and fuller. In them, she could almost see their faces. Almost. But in the end, the details always slipped away, smothered by fog.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, to keep her breathing steady.

“No, sir.” A lie. A bold one. “Not for a while.”

Mephisto smiled, slow and knowing, his amusement curling like smoke.

“Such an easy liar.” His voice dipped into something softer, almost indulgent. “Just like your mother.”

The words landed like a blade between her ribs. Cold. Precise.

She felt the impact but didn’t flinch.

He wanted a reaction. Wanted her to ask. To beg. To break herself open with questions he would never answer. He never did.

She swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth, forcing the storm inside her to settle.

“Anything else, sir?”

Her voice was steady. Controlled.

Mephisto’s smile remained, but the amusement in his eyes darkened into something else.

Control. This was what it always came down to. Who held it. Who would surrender it.

And today, Morana refused to.

He watched her for a moment longer, the smile still lingering on his lips, calculated and knowing. Then, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed her.

“You can go.”

Morana gave a sharp nod and turned, leaving without hesitation.

The castle was vast, carved from dark stone that held the cold like a living thing. Dampness clung to the air, seeping into the walls, into her bones. The corridors stretched long and hollow, splitting into separate wings—one for training, one for the dormitories. She knew every inch of it. Every hidden passage. Every locked door.

She climbed the winding stairs to her room, a cramped space she shared with nine other girls, agents, like her. Some were orphans. Some had been stolen. Others had been sold, handed over as currency in debts and dark bargains.

None of it mattered here. They belonged to Mephisto now.

Morana hated this time of day.

The quiet. The stillness. It was when everything she buried clawed its way back up. When her mind grew the loudest, filling the silence with thoughts she couldn’t afford to have.

She undressed and stepped into the shower, the water icy against her skin. It grounded her, but only just.

By the time she dried off and dressed for bed, exhaustion pulled at her limbs, but she didn’t want rest, she wanted escape. In some nights—nights like this—she prayed to anything, anyone, that she would dream of them again.

Sometimes, all she saw were shifting shadows, writhing and restless, as violet light crackled through the darkness. Other times, the weight of something vast and sorrowful pressed down on her, so heavy it stole her breath. Like they were grieving.

She didn’t know how she knew, but she felt it, deep, marrow-deep. A sorrow so profound it carved itself into her bones, into the space between her ribs where something essential always felt missing.

Voices called from a distance, muffled by time and grief.

She never saw their faces.

Only their power.

One, an endless void, cold and consuming, a presence that wrapped around her like an embrace made of night. The other, fire and fury, purple lightning snapping through the air, something ancient and wild in its depths.

She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping thin arms around herself as she stared at the stone walls of her chamber.

Mephisto’s realm was never quiet, never still. Flames flickered in sconces, casting shifting shadows across the floor, and somewhere in the distance, the faint wails of lost souls echoed through the halls.

She had been raised here, shaped her in fire and pain, sharpened her into something deadly. A blade meant to cut through his enemies, a weapon honed for his will. She had never questioned it—not truly. She had never known another life.

But the dreams… they made her wonder.

Made her want.

Something was out there. Beyond this place and beyond him. She could feel it, just past the edges of what she knew, waiting, reaching, calling to her.

For the first time, she whispered the thought aloud, tasting it on her tongue like a forbidden spell.

“Maybe they are looking for me. Maybe they dream of me too.”

Lying down, she exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax.

If she was lucky, maybe tonight she would dream of them again.

Morana felt it the moment she stepped through Morrigan's veil of illusion. The shift in the air. The hum of magic wrapping around her, settling into her bones.

It was strange, the peace that blanketed this place. Even with everything that remained unresolved, even with the risks pressing in from all sides, a quiet stillness lived here. A safety she had never truly known.

For years, as a kid, she had waited for this moment. Dreamed of it. The feeling of belonging, of having something that was hers. Naïve dreams, woven in the mind of a lonely child, a child who had been feared more often than she had been loved. A child burdened with power too vast for her small hands, a power that made others wary, distant. The few who had drawn close had always paid the price.

And now, standing here with what she had longed for her entire childhood, she found she didn’t know how to hold it.

Something inside her had locked shut.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. That childish hope had died long ago—centuries ago. The lack of control she once had over her power was gone, replaced with mastery, precision, a force sharpened into something absolute. And yet, it hadn’t made her stronger. Not in the ways that mattered.

Because control meant responsibility. It meant choices that were no longer just his to make—but hers.

And with it came the guilt.

She was the oldest, the most experienced. She had lived through more than the others, lost more, fought more, and she wielded her power with the kind of control they had yet to even dream of.

And yet, it was them who slipped so effortlessly into this new reality. Them who settled into their roles as sisters with ease, as if they had been waiting for each other their entire lives.

Maybe they had.

All of them had grown up alone, in one way or another. Orphans by force, by deception, by cruelty. Left to navigate a world that had never been kind.

But it was different for her.

She was the daughter sacrificed in exchange for the Darkhold, while the others were forged under its influence and concealed by him.

Centuries had passed, filled with lessons, battles, survival. Yet so much had been stolen, hidden—truths denied to her, pieces of herself lost to shadows.

Agatha and Rio. Their mothers.

Her mothers.

The weight of their names pressed against her ribs every time she thought about them, unfamiliar, heavy, and aching.

She had spent lifetimes learning, adapting, becoming something strong enough to withstand whatever threatened her. But now, it wasn’t just her.

Now, there were four others.

Younger. Unprepared. Innocent in ways she had never been allowed to be.

But they carried the same longing.

She could see it.

Morgan hid behind sharp words, clinging to the practicality of returning to the life she had built, the normality she swore she still wanted. But grief clung to her like a second skin. Guilt, thick and suffocating, was the mask she wore, the same as Makarya, both of them mourning the families they had lost in the process of finding this one.

Morrigan’s mask was different. Sarcasm. Quick-witted jabs that hid the truth beneath them, the fact that, for the first time, she had something to lose. That the thought of losing it terrified her.

And Melinoe.

Melinoe, who saw too much. Felt too much. The youngest of them all, yet the one who had broken through every wall, every hesitation, as if barriers had never existed in the first place. She had tied them all together in ways none of them fully understood yet.

As if, with unseen hands, she had woven a thread through each of them, knotting their fates tight. A tether none had asked for, yet none could bring themselves to undo

Their paths had crossed long before, centuries before, in ways they were only now beginning to unravel.

Morana could still feel it, as if it had just happened. Her first great mission, the artifact she had been sent to retrieve. What she hadn't known then was that it wasn’t a thing she was meant to take. It was someone.

She had defied orders that day. Had earned the scar she still wore with quiet pride.

And yet, even then, Mephisto had known. He always knew. A master of patience, of manipulation, of moving pieces before anyone realized they were on the board. No matter how fast they ran, how fiercely they fought against the tide, they were still playing catch-up.

And there was still one missing piece.

Agatha.

A life spent in hiding, only for her death to expose the truth. To connect them and bring them together.

Hidden from both Agatha and Rio. Reunited by the death of one, and found by the other, Death itself.

Rio had been the one to gather them. To shelter them. To make sure they were safe before she even thought of bringing Agatha into it.

Morana had seen the tension, when Rio spoke Agatha’s name. The weight of it. The history neither of them had been prepared to face.

For Morana, there had always been an image and name—a villain she had first feared, then been taught to hate. A name she had been raised to spit out like a curse. A name that stood for everything she had lost.

Death.

Only now, she understood. Rio hadn’t been the cause of her loss. She had been part of it.

It was easier when the others were around, easier to focus on their awe, the way they looked at Rio. An entity. A force. Death itself. Daughters of Death. Their fear, their fascination, their reverence, it was tangible.

To Morana, Rio was more than that.

She was her legacy. The source of her power. The reason she had been coveted and the reason Mephisto had shaped her into something useful. The reason Agatha had left her behind.

It would have been so simple to hate her. To blame her.

But Morana couldn’t.

Because Rio had fought her in the Velum—fought for every lost soul in the underworld, no matter how far gone they were. And in that moment, Morana had wondered…

Would she fight for her like that? If she knew. If she understood.

Would she accept her, unconditionally?

And in these past months, something had shifted.

A bridge had been built—not in words, not in grand gestures, but in quiet moments. In shared knowledge, in Rio’s unwavering instinct to protect, in the way the girls looked to her and Rio’s unyielding strugle to never let them down.

But Morana could feel the tension coiling in Rio, winding tighter with every passing day. The weight of what she was still hiding.

How would Agatha react? How would the girls?

But if things went right, if fate had any mercy left in it, Agatha would be here soon. And whether any of them were ready for it or not, they would have to figure out how to deal with it. .

Morana reached the entrance of the house, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

A blur of lilac and green came barreling toward her, fast and unrelenting.

Melinoe.

A hurricane in pajamas.

Morana raised an eyebrow, surprised to find Melinoe not only awake but practically vibrating with energy. Hadn't she been dead asleep when I left?

Mel launched herself at Morana, utterly confident she’d be caught. And, of course, she was. Morana wouldn’t admit how much that small act made her chest ache in the best way.

Before she could say a word, Melinoe grinned up at her, eyes alight with a mix of amusement and something suspiciously close to concern.

“Mom passed out.”

The word hit like a jolt of magic, sharp and disorienting. Mom. So easy, so natural, like it had always belonged to them. Morana felt it settle, heavy and unfamiliar in her chest. Melinoe had positioned each of them in her life with a simplicity that none of the others could grasp so easily. She loved without hesitation, without fear, without the years of walls the rest of them had built around their hearts.

But for Morana, for Morgan, for Morrigan and Makarya—it wasn’t so simple. It wasn’t that they didn’t feel it, but accepting it? That was something else entirely. Witches. Powerful. Unrelenting. They were not daughters, not in any way they had ever allowed themselves to be. And yet, here was Melinoe, tying them together with one word, dragging them into something they weren’t sure they were ready to claim.

Morana blinked. “Rio?”

Mel tightened her arms around Morana’s neck, far too chipper for a child at this ungodly hour.

“Nope.”

A beat of silence.

Morana frowned. “What do you mean?”

She stared at Mel, whose grin only widened. That was never a good sign.

“…Define ‘passed out,’” Morana said, already moving toward the stairs, her steps quick. “Because I find it very difficult to believe an entity like her could just…”

She stepped into the kitchen and froze.

She was not prepared for the absolute disaster in front of her.

Agatha was out cold, limp as a rag doll, while Morgan, Morrigan, and Makarya struggled to carry her. And by carry, she meant fumble helplessly in the worst display of teamwork she had ever seen.

Morgan was gripping Agatha’s arms in a death grip, her entire body straining under the weight. Meanwhile, Morrigan and Arya each held a single leg, as if that was in any way helpful.

Morgan, voice strained with effort, shot them both a murderous glare. “And why exactly am I stuck with both arms while you two only have one leg each?”

“First of all, basic math,” Morrigan quipped, as if this was the most normal conversation in the world. “Second, you are the oldest, which means, by default, you get the hardest job.”

Arya nodded solemnly. “And Mel doesn’t count. She’s just here for emotional support.”

Mel beamed, giving Morana a thumbs up.

Before Morana could even process the insanity, a sleek black cat materialized in the kitchen, casually leaping onto Agatha as if the unconscious woman was nothing more than a conveniently placed lounge chair.

Morgan groaned. “Pluto, shhh, shh, get off her.” She tried waving him away, as if that had ever worked before.

The cat merely blinked at her, utterly unimpressed, then curled up on Agatha’s stomach, clearly settling in for a nap.

Morana just stared.

“What the hell is happening?” she demanded, finally setting Mel down.

The three culprits screamed in surprise, promptly dropping Agatha.

The loud THUD echoed through the room.

They screamed again, now horrified at what they’d done.

The cat jolted at the sudden impact, fur bristling, before darting away in a blur of black.

Morana’s jaw fell open as they all stood there, staring at Agatha sprawled on the floor, arms flopped out at her sides like some kind of sacrificial offering.

“Shit,” Morrigan muttered.

“She fell hard,” Melinoe chirped, completely unbothered. “That’s exactly the sound she made when she hit the ground the first time.”

Morana whipped around to her. “The first time?”

Mel nodded cheerfully. “I think she got scared by Señor Scratchy.”

Oh, I bet she definitily didn’t fall because of Señor Scratchy.

Arya immediately pointed at Morrigan. “IT WAS MORRIGAN’S IDEA!”

It was easier to figure out what wasn’t Morrigan’s idea.

Morrigan gasped, clutching her chest like she’d just been stabbed. she demanded, looking deeply offended as she turned on Arya.

Then, shifting gears with impressive speed, she faced Morana, now wearing the expression of someone who definitelywasn’t guilty of anything.

“She was really shocked when she saw Mel,” she explained, gesturing wildly. “And, you know, not satisfied with just Mel appearing out of nowhere, she also got Señor Scratchy on top of it and got called ‘mom.’” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Her mind was practically wide open in shock, so I just thought I’d… go in for a bit. To calm her down.”

A pause.

“But I think I was too strong. She just… fell.”

Morgan stared at her, deadpan. “Go in for a bit? You’ll guarantee her a stroke in a minute.”

Arya groaned, rubbing her face “She’s gonna wake up sore as hell and even more pissed at us,”

Morgan winced. “At least her face is still intact?”

Morana inhaled deeply through her nose. Two hours.

Two.

Fucking.

Hours.

She turned the full force of her exasperation onto them. “I leave you three alone for two hours. Mel was asleep, the house was quiet, and you somehow still managed to cause a full-scale disaster. Did you forget what Rio and I told you?”

Silence.

Then Morrigan, with zero remorse, tilted her head and said,

“…In my defense, that sounds like something I would’ve ignored on purpose.”

Morgan tried to step toward Morana—only to immediately trip over Agatha’s leg and nearly faceplant.

“Oh my god, sorry,” she blurted, glancing at Agatha’s unconscious form before barreling on. “We thought she was in danger! We felt Rio, and it seemed like an argument was happening, or at least she seemed really tense, and we didn’t know what to do, but then Arya said that in the book you brought, there was an enchantment for portals, and Morrigan had already been there as a crow, so she knew the way, and…”

Morana stared at them, her expression shifting from confusion to horror as the situation unraveled with every rushed word.

“You opened a portal?”

Two hours. Just two hours. If I had taken any longer, they might’ve invited Mephisto in for tea.

Morgan clamped her mouth shut, her eyes widening as she realized she’d said too much. She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture, as if physically trying to push the words back into her mouth.

Morana turned her attention to Morrigan.

“And you went to the house?”

Morrigan gave an awkward smile, the kind that usually preceded a very bad excuse.

“Well, that depends. Who’s asking?” she hedged. “It’s not like I went looking like this,” she added, gesturing at herself. “I just needed to, you know… stretch my wings. Get some fresh air. And, by complete coincidence, Rio was there. With Agatha. I was just… curious, and…”

“Do you understand the risk you took?” Morana cut her off. “Who could have followed you? Who could have come through?”

“But Rio was there,” Arya chimed in hesitantly. “We thought that if we pulled Agatha through, Rio would just… come with her. So it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem.” Morana repeated flatly.

There was a beat of silence before her eyes flickered toward the house, a realization settling in.

“Wait. Where’s Rio?”

Morgan let out a tiny, guilty cough. “She… hasn’t come through yet.”

“We don’t know where she is,” Morgan admitted in a whisper, as if hoping that saying it quietly would somehow make it less disastrous.

“Okay. One problem at a time. First, let’s…”

But Morrigan cut in, her voice tight and just a little panicked.

“Guys, she’s fighting back. She’s stronger now. She knows I’m holding her there—I won’t be able to keep her trapped for much longer.”

Morana’s gaze flicked back to Agatha. Then to the three culprits in front of her. Then back to Agatha.

“I should kill all of you just so you can explain yourselves to Rio when she comes to collect your souls.”

Arya blinked. “She literally can’t collect us. She already explained that.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if they had previously scheduled their own deaths and received a polite email stating, Unfortunately, your soul retrieval has been postponed indefinitely.

“You know,” Morgan mused, crossing her arms, “it’s kind of dysfunctional that the ‘I told you so’ in this house is just ‘I should kill you all.’”

Morana tried—she really did—but the laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

Morgan was always the most dramatic.

“Do you even know how to spell ‘dysfunctional’?” Morrigan shot back, smirking.

Morgan’s expression stayed stone-cold serious, which only made it worse. Morana shook her head, inhaling deeply, forcing herself to focus.

“Alright, enough screwing around. Drop the illusions. Let her wake up on her own.”

Morrigan groaned but lifted her hands in surrender.

“Oh, here we go” Morgan muttered, as if waking up an unconscious woman they technically kidnapped via portal magic was just another Tuesday morning problem.

"Are you sure?" Morrigan asked, voice laced with genuine concern. "According to the ancient archives, she might be way more powerful than she lets on. And she doesn’t seem very… patient."

"Ancient archives?" Arya repeated, frowning. "I didn’t find anything about her in the books Morana brought."

Morrigan gave her a dead-serious look. "There are pages about her on the internet. Wikipedia. Brujapedia."

Morgan, eyebrows arching, turned to her. "Are you seriously calling our mother’s past ‘ancient archives’?"

Morrigan grinned. "It’s our family’s sacred texts, our legacy. She did a lot. The woman has history."

Morgan slowly turned to Morana, as if waiting for some divine intervention.

Morana exhaled sharply. There was no way Agatha had passed out from just shock. No. She must have been sick from simply not being able to bear the sight of the three of them arguing any longer.

"Morrigan."

Morrigan, eyes shut tight, took a deep breath, visibly fighting back laughter.

"Fine, fine. I’ll do it." She cracked one eye open. "But for the record, Brujapedia is surprisingly well-sourced."

The air in the room was heavy with the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but waiting.

Agatha’s head still ached, the edges of her mind foggy from the spell that had knocked her out. She inhaled sharply as she forced herself to sit up, the movement making her stomach twist.

And then she saw them.

Standing close, watching her with the same expression—wide-eyed, tense, anxious. Hoping. Bracing.

As if one wrong move could send her spiraling again.

Now there was another one, the realization struck like a blade, sharp and precise.

Rio’s words echoed in her mind, weighted with something she hadn’t fully grasped before.

“Her face… It was like seeing you there, in front of me.”

Morana.

That was the name. The name Doctor Strange had uttered. The name that had pulled a reaction from Rio—immediate, visceral, as if something ancient and primal had awakened in her.

Aggressive. Protective.

Unlike the others, she didn’t look nervous or uncertain. She stood with confidence, her violet eyes sharp and knowing, her arms crossed over her chest. But there was something else there too—something Agatha couldn’t quite name.

A gleam in her eyes, something between expectation and quiet relief.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, firm, carrying the weight of something inevitable.

“Welcome.”

The word settled in Agatha’s chest like a stone. Finally. That’s what it felt like Morana had really said.

And yet Agatha could see it, the way Morana’s muscles were taut, ready. Not defensive, not aggressive, but prepared. Prepared in case Agatha lashed out again, in case she let anger or panic take over.

Agatha swallowed, her throat dry.

The silence stretched for a breath too long before the girl they called Arya stepped forward, her voice soft, careful.

“Do you want to sit down? Or maybe something to drink?” she asked, her eyes filled with concern. “You might not be feeling great after…”

Agatha barely heard the rest.

Her gaze drifted past them all, stopping on the smallest figure in the room.

A little girl.

Her chest twisted, sharp and unbearable, she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Her hands curled into fists, her voice shaking even as she tried to force it into something firm and strong. But she couldn’t stop the way it cracked under the weight of too much emotion.

“Who…” She swallowed. Her breath was uneven. Her eyes burned. “Who are you all?”

It wasn’t just a question. It was a demand. A plea.

And yet, she already knew.

Morana’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t waver, didn’t soften.

Instead, she met Agatha’s gaze head-on, unwavering, and spoke the only truth that mattered.

“You already know.”

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching like a shadow that neither dared to break.

Morgan took a step back.

She could see it—Agatha’s expression, the storm of emotions flickering across her face, the way her body tensed like she was caught between fight and flight.

Maybe they should let her breathe. Maybe they should step back and give her space.

“Maybe we should just let…”

“No.”

Morana cut Morgan off, her voice calm but firm. Gentle, but unyielding.

“No more shortcuts. No more avoidance.”

Morgan hesitated, then closed her mouth, glancing away.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

She turned her gaze to Morgan, her shock only deepening, then shifted to Morrigan.

Her eyes moved between them, back and forth, searching. Seeing. The way they looked so much alike. The way they mirrored each other, mirrored Rio. And yet, they weren’t her. They weren’t just reflections. They were themselves.

Agatha’s chest rose and fell unevenly. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the window.

She’s thinking about running.

Morana saw it immediately, the weight pressing down on her. The moment becoming too much, too big, too real.

“I understand,” Morana said, her voice softer now.

Agatha’s head snapped toward her, her expression hardening, her lips parting, trembling just slightly before she ground out, “Don’t.”

The word was sharp, almost pleading.

Then, a gentle voice sounded between them.

“It’s okay, Mom.”

The voice was soft, hesitant, so painfully gentle it cut deeper.

Melinoe took a small step closer, her eyes warm, filled with quiet understanding.

“I was scared too.”

Agatha exhaled shakily, her shoulders trembling before she could stop it, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Morrigan stood still, silent. Her hands clenched at her sides, her jaw tight, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Then, without a word, she turned and left the room.

Morana watched her go, her footsteps light but hurried as she made her way toward the stairs. Them exhaled, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment, thinking.

The room felt suffocatingly still. The energy of expectation, coiled around them like an unseen force, pressing against their ribs. Every breath, every slight movement, was weighed down by the unspoken tension.

When she looked back up, her expression was steady once more.

“Things didn’t go the way we planned,” she admitted, her voice even. “Sorry for that.”

She hesitated, then added, “Rio will probably show up soon. She’ll explain it better than us.”

Agatha's eyes widened slightly, the words sinking in. Rio.

Rio knew. She had been gone for two months, and Rio had known all along.

“She didn’t know. Not until recently, just like the rest of us.”

Morana’s voice cut through the fog of Agatha’s thoughts, her gaze sharp and unwavering. It took Agatha a moment to register that the answer had come before she’d even voiced the question.

She looked at Morana, confusion flickering across her face, but Morana only met her gaze with quiet understanding. This wasn’t her fight, this was something Agatha and Rio would have to face when the time came.

“The house is big,” Morana continued, her voice calm but firm. “There are some empty rooms. You can wait in whichever one you prefer.”

Another moment of silence, then…

“I’ll help you choose one.”

Melinoe’s voice was light, as if none of this was strange. As if nothing about this moment carried the weight of centuries. She stepped forward, reaching out her hand. The gesture was simple, so utterly ordinary, yet it made every muscle in Agatha’s body lock up.

“I think we should…” Morgan started, but her words died in her throat.

Melinoe had already closed the distance, her small hand reaching for Agatha’s, fingers brushing against hers like a whisper. The room held its breath.

Morgan, Makarya, Morana, none of them moved, none of them spoke. They just watched. Waiting. Expecting, what exactly? A reaction? An explosion? For Agatha to pull away?

But she didn’t.

She didn’t move at all, frozen like a ghost of herself.

Melinoe’s fingers curled around Agatha’s hand, her grip firm but warm. She tugged, gentle yet certain, guiding Agatha toward the stairs. There was no force in it, no demand, just an unshakable quietude, as if Melinoe had decided that this was how things would be, and the world would simply follow suit.

And Agatha followed.

It wasn’t a choice or compliance. It was something neither of them could name.

Agatha’s breath came slow and unsteady, her shoulders still tense, but she didn’t pull away.

"Scratchy said your hand feels really nice when you pet him," Melinoe said, her voice carrying the same ease as if they were discussing the weather. "I was curious."

No one spoke.

No one moved.

They just watched as Melinoe led Agatha up the stairs, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

As if this was how it had always been.